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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405017">the besotted traveller, perpetually falling</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl'>bubblewrapstargirl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the ridiculously romantic Rampod Redbolts au [14]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Infidelity, M/M, Unrequited Love</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:34:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,903</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26405017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Roose Ryswell fruitlessly follows the man he loves across the North.</p><p>
  <b>[03 Jan 2021- ON HIATUS: As you know, this world is kinda tearing at the seams and I just don't have enough time right now to give these stories what they deserve. See <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/profile">my profile</a> for more info/to contact me. I will not be replying to comments on fics until further notice.]</b>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Podrick Payne/Roose Ryswell, Ramsay Bolton/Podrick Payne, Roose Ryswell &amp; Barbrey Dustin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the ridiculously romantic Rampod Redbolts au [14]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/938706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the besotted traveller, perpetually falling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Roose Ryswell was the youngest of his brothers, and not long over the hurdle of a score-and-ten when he fell in love for the first, perhaps only, time. He was not a man of sentiment, like his only nephew, who was prone to daydreaming and singing sad melodies with his harp. Roose played the flute, when the mood took him. Usually jolly little jigs, which got the boards thumping with enthused, dusty boots. He’d given thought to marriage, occasionally; as a hazy, insubstantial cloud atop the hills of the future. As a third son, set to inherit only what had already been gifted him (a small sum of gold and a good horse), he was no one’s idea of a prospect. Still, there were low houses in the mountains, and good deals to be made in war, and it might happen yet. But he was in no hurry.</p><p> </p><p>He first met Podrick Payne in the Great War. Perhaps their paths crossed in the bloody war for independence, but if they did, he didn’t recall. Can’t recall much, really; save for the mud, and the screams of dying men, infinite hunger, and the pissing rain that kept them from getting on. Routed out the lions in the end though. And their main reward was a troop of ice monsters, trying to fuck them from the rear. Still, they made it through. Roose lost his father and second eldest brother, but not much changed. Not much, save an awareness, some might call it an obsession, that he had with a certain young knight.</p><p> </p><p>Podrick Redbolt now (though most forgot and had to be reminded), was a stout young man. Not particularly beautiful, but then most men weren’t. Not many had the looks of Robb Stark or Jon Targaryen. But there was <em>something</em>. Some unnameable quality: a simple sweetness. Podrick was deferential, and kind. Of course Roose had encountered many men in common servitude. They were snivelling, most of them, the fire beaten out of them, so they only knew how to obey. The Southron-born knight was never so meek as that. Roose had seen Ser Podrick angry, once, and there was something about the blazing, fierce righteousness of it that <em>was</em> beautiful.</p><p> </p><p>And it was rare indeed, to see Roose Bolton’s crazed bastard act in a placatory manner in response. Ramsay clucking and soothing like a fretting hen, was bizarre and uncomfortable to witness. So Roose had slithered into the shadows and away, before he was seen. He never told a soul, neither. The bastard took offense to a terrible, insensible degree, and Roose did not want the boy to ever think that Roose had slighted him.</p><p> </p><p>Ever after, there was a lingering attention that Roose couldn’t help but pay to Ramsay’s… companion. There was something strange between the two knights, of that he was certain. Some debt, a fervid loyalty. He didn’t quite understand it, but it niggled at him. He never could put his finger upon what their close friendship put him in mind of. Roose hated riddling games, so resolved to put the queer matter out of his mind.</p><p> </p><p>Until a night of bawdy songs and even lewder conversation, turned to talk of the best whores of Westeros, and the courtly harlots that might give them a run for their money. Queen Margaery was disparaged as no virgin bride. Though all agreed she was better than the cunt, Cersei Lannister. The Southron Queen’s brother, Loras Tyrell, was mocked as a rotten peach from the same tree. They were a family of hussies, who won loyalty in the bedchamber. Then Ser Podrick himself was mentioned in the same breath, as a digger of gold, in richer men’s bedchambers.</p><p> </p><p>“That big mouth of his, only good for suckin’- but he’s digging his own grave for want of that gold, dallying with a senseless fuck like Ramsay Snow,” said a man Roose did not know.</p><p> </p><p>It was as though Roose’s whole world shifted, tilted so as to make him giddy. Everything was skeered slightly off the correct angle, so that tapestries and clouds and candlesticks all hung dizzyingly enough to make him sick. He’d known men lay together, naturally. He had engaged in a few dalliances himself. Hands in the dark, when there weren’t enough camp followers to go around. But to think of Podrick Payne in the same breath as that dandy ponce, Loras Tyrell? No. The two could not be equated.</p><p> </p><p>Yet in the days that followed, the thought lingered. What kind of a man was content to settle for such a thing, outside of a campaign? There were plenty of women about, even after the heavy losses of winter. Spring was almost upon them, and with it would come answers. It was easy enough for Roose to accompany his sister on her visits to the Dreadfort. Barbrey had an absurd affection for Roose Bolton’s bastard, as well as their actual nephew. Since the former had been partially legitimised with a knightly name, she’d taken to allowing Ramsay to call her ‘aunt’. Roose did not go in for this, and the boy never called him ‘uncle’. But he said nothing against it either. He knew when to pick a battle, and you never could win against Barbrey. You’d keel over and die from old age before that happened. His only remaining sister was like a lizard-lion; once her teeth clamped down on a matter, she would never release the meat from her teeth.</p><p> </p><p>In the Dreadfort, the unnatural affection between the two knights was plainer to see. In the lands of his father, Ramsay was even worse at hiding his unnatural glee toward the suffering of others. And he was even less inclined to hide other strange aspects of his nature.</p><p> </p><p>Roose hadn’t noticed the polite distance between Ramsay and Pod, on their visits to Barrowton or while they were fighting alongside House Ryswell’s men. But the complete erasure of it in their own home, made the small concessions they’d made elsewhere suddenly obvious. Ramsay was a possessive, arrogant creature. When deep in his cups, he put hands on Podrick. He was forever pawing at him, like a brute in a brothel. Pod dealt with his drunkard of a lover with grace. Usually gentling his touch and leading him away, before he could make a spectacle of himself. Ramsay adored spectacle, however. And his smug smiles and feigned politeness didn’t cover the gleam in his eyes, whenever there was a ruckus.</p><p> </p><p>Roose couldn’t understand how two such different men could come together. To attempt to forge a life together, sharing chambers and even raising a child, as though he belonged to them both in equal measure. Podrick was <em>sensible</em>. Dutiful. He might have been a valued Captain, were it not for his true family name, which raised him to the status of an honoured guest. One who simply never returned home. But Ramsay was little more than a beast. A few thousand years ago when men were crueller, he might have been kept in the kennels on a leash. He was a chief torturer in the war, and seemed to have retained the position since. The stories about his conduct were enough to turn one’s stomach, and Roose wasn’t a squeamish man. The whole affair was enough to keep his curiosity stoked, well into the summer.</p><p> </p><p>As the years passed, Roose continued to cross paths with them. Watching from afar, as Podrick Redbolt blossomed from an unpretentious young man, to a confident landed knight, after the debacle with the poisoning attempt. Roose wouldn’t have blamed Pod for becoming a twitchy recluse, ruled by paranoia afterward. But Pod was too assertive for that. He had responsibilities now, outside of the Dreadfort, and took them seriously.</p><p> </p><p>It seemed to drive Ramsay wild with jealousy that he had to share Pod’s attention with the peasants that farmed his new land. They only required a little attention; pig farmers and sheep herders wanted for little, and expected less. But Ramsay followed Pod everywhere, like an aged hound begging for attention. Pod was indulgent of course; he never seemed to twitch when Ramsay flew into one of his rages. But Roose wondered how many bruises the younger man might wear, underneath his boiled armour. That a man might consider himself under yoke, like a wife subject to a husband’s whims, baffled Roose. It was about this time that he realised that his own peculiar fixation with the lovers might reveal something of his own nature. It was an uncomfortable realisation, but one that he quickly warmed to.</p><p> </p><p>Roose concluded that if his namesake, the redoubtable and fearsome Lord Bolton, could tolerate such a union with barely an effort to disguise it, and if his sister could similarly sanction it, then it might also be acceptable for a man such as himself, one without need to marry well. The hindrance came when Roose tried to envision himself with a real, longstanding male lover. He could not imagine stumbling across another man so accommodating and appealing, as Podrick Redbolt.</p><p> </p><p>He never really planned to interfere. What could Roose offer, that Pod didn’t already have? Ramsay might never inherit the Dreadfort, but he would always be welcome there. The ancient castle of the Red Kings was a damn sight grander than Ryswell lands. Pod even had land of his own, should he ever be cast out. And he garnered the good will of his people besides. It was highly unlikely that Ramsay would do less than provide. He seemed to pride himself, in his madman’s manner, at being capable of keeping another man in comfort. Pod seemed to lack nothing. His clothes were rich, he ate well, and was rarely without a smile. And yet… perhaps it was a lack of dramatic romance or adventure in Roose’s own life, that caused the real trouble. He invited himself along, when Barbrey visited the newly proclaimed Redbolt coastal lands.</p><p> </p><p>Without much forethought, Roose endeavoured to ingratiate himself with Pod. They’d spoken before, many times. But it was during the turn toward autumn, the last lazy months of summer, that they began a candid closeness unlike they had ever shared. Pod had a soft sense of humour, and seemed to lap up the attention Roose bestowed. They took to walking together about the grounds of the grand, novel Redbolt keep. They went riding without retinue, along the newly established trails, sharing japes and pleasant quiet.</p><p> </p><p>Roose gifted the household three mares for the stable. He indicated that one in particular was for Pod. He got away with it, since it was close to Pod’s name-day, when Roose arrived with Barbrey and her retainers. It caused something in his stomach to squirm with pride, when Pod accepted the gift. He even rode the horse on their outings.</p><p> </p><p>“I was never so concerned with horseflesh as my brothers,” Roose confessed, “I actually rather enjoy to sail. Have you ever been in a shallow river boat, Ser Podrick?”</p><p> </p><p>“Not frequently,” Pod shook his head, “But I believe in the Neck, during the war… there were crannogs of course, but only crannogmen have any real command of those, and with so many of us to manoeuvre...”</p><p> </p><p>“Verily,” agreed Roose, and was pleased when Pod continued the conversation, by asking what he enjoyed most about sailing.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s something very calm about knowing there’s only one route to go. Forward, or if you can, back. But there’s usually only one river ahead of you, and so you can enjoy the scenery without worrying about getting lost.”</p><p> </p><p>“That does sound calming,” said Pod with a sigh.</p><p> </p><p>Roose stared at his red, slightly chapped lips, and wondered what it might be like to kiss them.</p><p> </p><p>Over dinner, he watched the unhappy moue of Pod’s lips, surrounded by the raucous chatter of Ramsay, his son and their guests. Pod seemed alone among the clamorous noise, a solitary island surrounded by tempestuous seas. He wasn’t sure quite what came over him, but Roose asked if they might have music. The cry was taken up, and instruments were found. Roose commandeered a flute, and encouraged a merry air. After contributing to two sets, he passed the instrument on. Then Roose hovered beside Pod’s chair, until the younger man looked up, and blinked at the offered hand. His fingers were hesitant when they clasped Roose’s own, but his grip grew confident when they bounced through a jig. They went spinning with arms interlocked. It was a chaste sort of dance, that was easy for children to master. They weren’t the only men dancing together, and that made it less notable.</p><p> </p><p>But still, Pod offered him a searching look later that evening, which Roose caught through the smoky candlelight. He was not deterred. There didn’t seem to be a flash of warning in those warm brown eyes, rather a simple curiosity. Roose pressed his luck with bolder flirtations, until there could be no mistake of his intentions.</p><p> </p><p>Pod’s lips were soft, and his sighs sweet, Roose learnt. It was only a quick moment, caught by a stream on another of their jaunts outside the keep. Pod gave a pretty whimper that Roose captured, before he pushed Roose away and took several paces back. Pod was clutching his mouth with one palm. He shook his head as if stupefied. His eyes were glassy, as though he might actually cry over the basically chaste incident.</p><p> </p><p>“Ramsay would kill you for that,” said Pod, a weak rasp, “He will, if he discovers it.”</p><p> </p><p>“And you?” said Roose, determined to ignore the warning, at least in this moment. “What will you do?”</p><p> </p><p>For a crazed minute, Roose believed Pod might consent to kiss him again. That he might leap wildly into his arms, so that they might make love here among the undergrowth, with rabbits and hawks as scandalised witnesses.</p><p> </p><p>“I will ride home,” said Pod sensibly, “And we will not speak of this, with anyone.”</p><p> </p><p>Roose tried to cover his disappointment with an obedient nod. He followed, meek as a lamb, as Podrick led the way back to the castle. Pod said not a word to him the following sennight, shying away from his touch.</p><p> </p><p>But an agreement not to speak had no hegemony over his thoughts. Roose’s mind clean bolted out of the stable, with absurd schemes on how he might win over Pod’s affections. How they might conduct an affair under the bastard’s nose. What his brothers might say, if he returned home with a notoriously perverted man. If they would assume Roose had been corrupted and seduced by such a creature... It was enough to make his head spin, and cause him to be frequently silent, lest he open his mouth and make an ass of himself.</p><p> </p><p>Pod shot concerned looks his way, furtive and quick. As though he suspected Roose had been addled, like when a boy was kicked in the head by a horse. Barbrey flatly asked him if he’d lost his wits into a wine goblet, after two nights running when Roose barely spoke across dinner. Roose flushed, and mumbled into his beard. She scoffed at him. The same way she had when he was six, and she’d caught him stealing sweetbread from the kitchens. But she let the matter lie, having larger complaints than his peace.</p><p> </p><p>When Ramsay was on one of his hunts, Roose boldly took another opportunity. It was infinitely more reckless. Roose barely knew the routines of the men-at-arms that guarded the household, but he managed to slip into the family rooms unseen. Pod yelped in surprise when Roose ducked into the lord’s bedchamber. It was a large, airy set of rooms with vaulted ceilings and large fireplaces. Pod twitched toward one that was still burning. As though he intended to go for the poker, as his nearest weapon. He ceased moving altogether, when he realised just who was rude enough to barge into his bedchamber unannounced.</p><p> </p><p>“You have lost your mind,” Pod said quietly, “Ramsay will kill us both-”</p><p> </p><p>“Ramsay isn’t here.”</p><p> </p><p>It was foolhardy. More outrageous than Roose had ever behaved in his life thus far. But he crossed the room in quick strides, and took Pod’s face between his hands. And Pod did nothing to stop him. Then they were kissing; deep, wet and forceful, and Roose was loosening the ties on Pod’s undershirt and fumbling at his breeches. Then they were tumbling, a messy heap upon the furs. Scabbling at each other like scrapping chickens. Pod moaned at Roose’s mouth on his neck. His bony fingers were biting into Roose’s shoulders, unwilling to pull him closer, but unable to push him away. And when Roose pressed forward, Pod seemed powerless to resist.</p><p> </p><p>He let Roose slot between thighs with ease. They rutted together like beasts, still half-clothed. The essential cloth and leather was opened, so that hard flesh could undulate against hot, damp skin. There were mumbled curses and rough tugs at one another, as they each learnt the feel of the other for the first time. And afterward, in a heap of tired and sticky limbs, Pod lay beside him, finally exposed, and still as honied as when he had been an untasted fruit. Roose kissed his shoulder and mumbled sweet endearments. His calloused fingers caressed miles of unblemished, soft skin.</p><p> </p><p>Pod lay on his back, peering into the dark, and said nothing at all.</p>
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